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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170259">A Beginner's Thoughts on Keeping Bees</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteMizerable/pseuds/WhiteMizerable'>WhiteMizerable</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, an extended metaphor masquerading as a story, and bastille's song laughter lines, author has no actual experience or knowledge of beekeeping, inspired in part by the starless sea, kind of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:16:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,741</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170259</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteMizerable/pseuds/WhiteMizerable</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- not everyone is cut out for the job.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Beginner's Thoughts on Keeping Bees</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- you might buy the bees, and they might arrive to you all packaged up nice in a box, but they nest with you out of necessity, and they are not yours.</p>
<hr/>
<p>There is a door in the Archives. This is, perhaps, a misrepresentation- more accurately, there is a stain on the wall in a blocky, door-like shape. It is not yellow, but there are splotches of long-dried gold at its edges. It was hidden for many, many years behind a stack of boxes, and is vaguely reminiscent of their shape, slightly darker than the light-bleached wall around it.</p>
<p>Sasha notices it, once. She slows her pace, considers the spot where a handle might be, reaches out. But Elias calls her name from down the hall, and she does not touch it. She never notices it again.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Beneath the ever-watching gaze of the sky, Jon trudges forward, unblinking. There is a recorder in his hand. His other hand is white and red and smooth with scars, and he holds Martin tight with it, tight enough that it aches even through the damaged nerves. Martin aches too. Neither of them speak it aloud.</p>
<p>They stop, and Jon steps away, gaze fixed on a distant horizon, recorder lifting to his lips. Their hands drift apart. Martin watches Jon for as long as he can bear, then looks away. His fingers are sticky, dripping wet.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- no matter how viciously a nest is destroyed, no matter how cruelly a queen is crushed, the hive may still rebuild.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It is funny, the way wood burns. Martin says as much to Jon as they lie sprawled on the battered old sofa in Daisy’s cabin, staring at the low fire in the hearth. The way it pops and flares, twists and catches, its low and humming buzz. Like a wild animal exploring someplace new.</p>
<p>Jon has never been a poet, so he agrees, quietly, and leans his head on Martin’s shoulder. He does not say it, but he thinks the fire is terrifying, in a strange and beautiful way. He thinks it looks a bit like love.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Something is leaking in the Archives, something thick and gooey. Basira notices first, calls Melanie over, then Jon. They stare up at where it pools around the rim of an old ceiling lamp, glittering gold and amber.</p>
<p>Jon wonders if they should inform Elias. No one does. The thick substance continues to drip down the walls, along the top of the doorframe, just out of reach.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- the trust of the hive is earned, not given, and if you break it, no amount of research or forethought or protective gear will be enough to save you.</p>
<hr/>
<p>A spider sits nestled in a forgotten corner of the Archives. It is patient, silent, a predator content to wait at the side of its web for an unsuspecting insect to wander through. It hears the rise and fall of a human voice in the near distance, and the sudden interruption of a slamming door.</p>
<p>Something sharp pierces its thorax, stabbing deep into its flesh. It writhes, web vibrating beneath its feet, and moves to face its attacker. Something stabs it again, and agony rushes through its limbs, brief and terrible, and it crumples and falls to the floor. The human voices buzz in the background.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Daisy sits behind the wheel of her car, staring blankly out the windshield as the radio drones. It is raining. The drops fall heavy against the roof, a rhythmic drumming, and she struggles to breathe evenly, to quell the wild pounding of her blood. She wants to rip and tear until she knows what she needs. Her hands clench tight, white-knuckled, around the steering wheel.</p>
<p>When she finally lets go, the plastic and leather are wet, and her fingers are sticky.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- the best way to kill the entire hive is to seal the box and wait, but this is also the best way to ruin all the honey, so be mindful.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Martin kisses Jon. It may have been evening once, when the sky was more than an unblinking stare, but now it is an unchanging moment, identical to the one before it and the one after. Martin changes it in subtle ways, with a kiss, a hug, a promise of an impossible tomorrow.</p>
<p>Jon kisses Martin back and pretends that he believes the promise. His chest feels thick and full. When he pulls away, his eyes catch the light, and Martin sees them ringed with warm streaks of molten gold.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Georgie holds the Admiral close and stares out the window. The sun is shining bright outside, but there is an emptiness within her that she thinks should be fear. Fear for Melanie, perhaps, or fear for Jon, or fear for something else, someone else, a friendly unknown. She squeezes the Admiral too tightly, and he meows his displeasure until she lets go.</p>
<p>She makes lunch instead. There are flowers on the table, something she bought on a whim, and they carry with them the memory of something sweet. Outside her front door, cars rumble past with a low and soothing buzz.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- you must be kind, or your bees will swarm.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Tim moves boxes from one hallway to another. It is pointless work, dusty and frustrating, and he can feel Jon’s eyes on him from somewhere close. He scowls and sets the current box down too heavily. The old cardboard breaks, spilling sheaves of paper out onto the floor.</p>
<p>Cursing, he crouches to gather them up. Only once he has bundled a few into his arms does he notice how stained and sticky they are, the residue of a viscous liquid seeping into his sleeves. He throws the papers back down and storms away. He does not notice the door-shaped stain.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sometimes, Martin pretends that his flat is not empty. He makes two cups of tea and two plates of toast and sits down as if to have breakfast with an old friend. Sometimes, he talks, but that is lonelier even than an empty flat, so mostly he is silent. He pretends it is a comfortable silence.</p>
<p>He does not clean up the second meal, just in case someone comes to eat it, until he returns home from the Archives. He pretends that he has not put extra sweetness into the teacup, the way Jon likes it, and he pretends that he is not crying thick, sticky tears as he washes up.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- if you are not careful, you will forget not only your manners but your gear, and your bees will notice.</p>
<hr/>
<p>There is an ending to all this. They all know it. Basira stands in a wasteland with a gun clutched in her hand and does not bother to pretend otherwise. There is an ending and it will not be what she wants. She breathes, centers herself, and starts forward again.</p>
<p>The barrel of the gun glistens as she walks, and a drip of viscous fluid builds, ever so slowly, and falls to spatter against the dead earth. Her shoes are dotted with it, too, a noticeable wetness in the dry land.</p>
<hr/>
<p>There is a door in the Archive, and it is open, and the ocean it contained has washed through him and out of him and into the world. He still shudders at the thought of it, dreams of would-haves and could-haves. He longs for gentle breezes and soft sunrises long gone.</p>
<p>There is also a second door in the Archive. It sits across the open expanse where there once was ocean, and it is only open a tiny crack. Thick golden liquid pools around its edges, and the air is pungent and sweet.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- the bees do not belong to you, and their honey is not yours to take, and they know you now.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The Archives burn easily, old paper catching the firelight and erupting up the walls and into the ceilings. Martin stands in the middle of the blaze and watches as the shelves warp and twist, crackle and flare, and watches as the world burns.</p>
<p>The Archive burns easily as well. Jon is silent, but his tears glow gold in the inferno, dripping in viscous drops off his cheeks and sizzling as they hit the floor. He smiles goodbye at Martin, who stands and cries and watches as his world burns.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Melanie stares at the awl for a long time. She does not want to be afraid, but she is, and she is not sure if that is better than the anger. This is not the end, she tells herself, only a beginning, and she lifts the awl to her face.</p>
<p>It hurts. She hears herself cry out, and something warm and sticky pools down her face. She is sobbing, panicking, descending into shock, as the door slams open. Her senses are overwhelmed with sweetness.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- the bees know that they do not need you, and soon, you will know it, too.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The train is running late. A woman on the platform checks her watch and groans. Further down, two boys bend over a book and whisper excitedly about what is written on the page. A man whistles tunelessly as he empties a garbage bin. Footsteps clatter across the ground.</p>
<p>On the road above, cars rumble by, their varying paint jobs set alight in the sunset. Dark clouds in the distance promise sweet rain. Pedestrians rush from door to door. The air is warm with the low, constant buzz of life.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Martin stands in the smoldering wreckage of the Archives and stares at a door-shaped stain on a barely-standing wall. That is, perhaps, a misrepresentation- more accurately, he stares at a door, only open a tiny crack. He looks at the place where a handle might be. The ground is sticky beneath his feet.</p>
<p>He moves forward, his shoes glittering with thick globs of molten amber liquid, and knocks on the door in the Archives. It is sticky, too, and his knuckles come away with a glaze of gold. He waits. Slowly, the door opens.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The air is pungent and sweet.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Here is the thing about beekeeping- even the most carefully kept bees can sting, and all bees dream of freedom.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was possessed by the need to write this at 11:30 last night and spent almost three hours doing so.</p>
<p>Come talk to me at Arakni666 on Tumblr if you want.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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